Step by Step/Issue 51
This is Issue #51 of ''Step by Step''. This is the third issue of Volume Nine. Caesar ---- It was Patrick Hughes who had made the arrangements for the day's events. Hours of calling up allies had left him with exhausted lungs, and he was barely conscious as he sat with a leg over the other opposite the table of Blaine McConnell. Outside the crowds of thousands had been seated in the royal stadium. The governor had done well this day. Ten minutes had taken to sit down and get caught up on the details. Called the Party officials? Only the youngest and the moderates. This soldier of the old guard was good, thought Blaine, and it was no doubt that his slippery art of persuasion had saved his life over the years enough to shield him from Party hate of the old guard. Blaine McConnell smiled. Private Hughes had died, and this was corpse who had sold his heart to the devil for thirty silvers. Hughes smiled as well, as if he could read minds. "The state press was notified first," he began. "Propaganda pamphlets were printed by dawn, ready to be passed out during the morning food lines. I paid dozens of canvassers, had men on the streets shouting. All canvassers were told to regroup at my home. There was one incident," Patrick paused and let McConnell reach for the bottle of brown cognac on the table. "One canvasser went missing. A young guy. Sixteen. I had some men track the whereabouts." "Haven't told Cleon?" McConnell said, forcing cognac down his throat with a disgusting gulp. Patrick licked his bottom lip. "It could have been a defection. I paid them well, but you never know. I wouldn't think it was a hit, not on some minimum wager. I could see it being a defection, a spy from the old ranks in the Party." "You know how it is," McConnell said. "You're a kid, get some quick money while making your mama proud. Then you get a tug on the sleeve, some whisper in the ear of a better job, cash money. Betrayal is cheap and has direct deposit," he said, offering the former soldier a swallow, something he rarely did and only to provoke hidden flaws under the skin of snakes like this boy. Patrick said he had to remain sober. The door opened with a click of a lock, and entered Cleon Smith undressing him aggressively down to undershirt and walked to the table, laying out his damp uniform on the table. "They think I'm a fool," Cleon grumbled, the sweat and rage on his face extreme. Blaine McConnell raised him the cognac, and the nephew took it with hot temper. "What could it be?" Blaine asked Patrick, and Cleon looked at the two with bloody steam from his eyes. "Everything's in order, and hot damn do we have an audience. Patsy outdid himself on this," he said, and Cleon slammed the bottle on the table and he reached at him with both hands. The governor of the glorious capital couldn't react. Cleon stood there menacingly, the muscles bulging on his forearms, squeezing his paws around Blaine's throat. Patrick Hughes watched deadpan. Then Cleon released his throat and Blaine instantly began to struggle for breath, swiping at Cleon as he backed from the table. "Asshole!" Blaine swore, straining his lungs. "I respect that shit!" Cleon stood impassively, and stretched his hand. Blaine McConnell took it and shook it proudly, coughing into his other hand. "I heard," said Patrick. "About the games. How you weren't invited." "The Party hates me," Cleon began, "Uncle despises me. Why can't he see that I mean well? I want good for what we have as much as him. I loved him. I gave for him. I provided my life for him. Taken lives for him," Cleon continued. "Now he tells me I'm trying to buy him off. Buy him off, can you believe that?" Blaine nodded and Patrick remained straight-faced. Cleon should be the heir, but the odds of him receiving the mantle of power had inched to none. He looked to Patrick weary eyed. They had taken this execution to heart. Now Cleon had to wipe the spit from his face and continue. "Lucas and his big brother?" Patrick asked Cleon, referring to his day's bodyguards. They were more or less his chaperones, more or less his friends which he kept closer than his enemies. He discussed with them to meet after the stadium's main event for a dinner, and there he would surely berate them over how they brought that insane slave to his uncle. The slave was a raving lunatic, foaming at the mouth. Cleon Smith cared little for his prophecies about slave life and was glad he was to be laid out and crucified. Cleon said, "No need for them now. Stadium has many layers of protection. Hundreds of Party men with their special squads of loyal dogs with rifles." There was a hint of jealousy in his voice. "The canvassers were successful," Blaine commented. "One of them defected." "To where?" "To the enemy side," Patrick said, and Cleon nodded, knowing this meant to the elder statesmen in the Party. "You're sure?" Cleon was ripe on details. "Are you positive?" Patrick nodded and Blaine said, "Must have been a quickie bribe." "His name?" Patrick ignored and said, "We'll do everything as planned. This will be something to spice up the capital populace. They'll get a good show, and it'll translate to political clout. You want the moderate Party officials to take notice. As I said, forget your uncle's allies. They will never respect you," he said coldly, and Cleon gulped down the truth. "How many Party officials showed up?" "The important ones," Patrick responded. "Most ones who were kids during the revolution. A few who were too young to remember it. They will remember not the blood spectacles, but the number of audience. Turnout. That is key, the support from the mob. A thousand civilians hold the power of one Party official." "Wrong," muttered Cleon. "The power is with Uncle." "He favors Blaine." "Hot damn," Blaine McConnell flushed at the face. "Watch the loose tongue, Patsy. Now Cleon, that's why we are privileged to meet in my office today. Any suspicious agents must have gotten word by now.. Notice your uncle's new protection. We ought to assume the other governors already got word of the games. Must be working overtime to fix together the best team. I ain't too happy with having to put together a team myself. You know, that's where you come in." Blaine winked and Cleon leaned forward. "You assemble a team. Pick some fighters from the sewers or the fields. Some who are on death row to earn some mercy from the people. A great team of real gladiators. You and I, we can be unstoppable." Cleon Smith's face was impeccable, sharp and his eyes widened with sugary visions. Thoughts of what could be and of what should be raced through his heart and mind. They would be smiling. Come now, they would be smiling and swallowing his orders soon. The Party officials. Those who had denied him any access to the throne, and he would eclipse his jealous father. The envy would give way to fear, and Red Smith would part on his deathbed knowing his nephew would destroy his legacy of firing squads and bayonets to create a new world, a brave new world. Cleon could taste the power, his tongue wrapped in sweet kiss with Irene. Cleon sighed and said, "Governor, you are a great man. But I cannot accept." "What!" "I cannot disrespect my father," he said, turning to face Patrick, raising the half-full bottle of cognac to his mouth, and sending Patsy an impressive wink. "You must understand, it is ethics," Cleon said and paused to drink. But before he could Blaine tossed himself onto Cleon, grabbing him by the shoulders. "You listen to me and you listen to me good," Blaine spat through his drunkenness, a breath sick with hours of alcohol. "I just made you an other you can't refuse. And you refused. No, Cleon, you will help me. Help me in this." "Help you? So it's to benefit you?" Blaine nodded. "I never asked for my position, nor for the promotion. But I'm good as governor. I'm fed well with food, wine, and romp. I wish to retire in that paradise, surrounded by assured money. A leader of the people, that I can't be," Blaine said with an extraordinary dread, and Cleon could tell it was not the tasks of being leader that concerned him. It was a fear too deep, a fear akin to a cow led to slaughter. But Cleon would be gentle this day. The nephew smiled and took Blaine in a strong embrace of the hand. "My lady is special to me. I love her, and you can figure her love for me. I'd give her the world, if only I was such a man. I kiss her, but I have no gifts to back up my words. You can help me as I help you," Cleon said, and Blaine pressed the hand hard with his. The deal was struck. On a future night if all went well, Governor McConnell would ensure that the local movie theater would be closed. Any propaganda reels for the training of the youths would be halted . Cleon Smith and his wife would enjoy the passion of romance under an affectionate title. Blaine would sleep pleasantly knowing his life would be saved. As they were engaged in negotiation, Patrick Hughes figured he would continue helping Cleon, until the last minute. If Cleon was profitable, he would cash him in for a seat at Cleon's table. This was not guaranteed. Cleon could lose the Party and gain the mob, and the mob would ride him to the throne. But through bloodshed and guillotine. Patrick knew of the thirst of the guillotines. Patrick smiled now and congratulated the men, and hoped Cleon would prove less than a fool. ---- Minutes later Blaine, Patrick, and the nephew of Red Smith approached the royal seating area of the coliseum, and the crowd had grown dense and their roars thicker. The fierce beating of music and anthem rattled Cleon's heart. The royal seating was tight and clustered above the entrance to the lobby. A gang of uniformed animals sat erect waiting for the performance. Most were young Party officials, and Cleon licked his smile. Only one thing was on their minds, the brilliant thousands of heads filling the stadium. What was good for Cleon would be good for them politically. The mob cheered now as arms waved and fingers pointing to the baseball diamond. The coliseum was a monster, and they would watch it today consume a great feast. Outside the stadium was peace. Hundreds of uniformed soldiers of McConnell's army lined the front entrance and the surrounding streets. Now the beast was churning. Dozens of uniformed boys raced up and down the stadium seats, throwing biscuits and slabs of sausages and meats to the hungry men and women. Cleon watched them eagerly work. Most of the youth would soon be proud at his side. But he thought then of the defection. A sixteen year old, young and easily manipulated. The thick of his support came from the youngest ranks of the military and government. He wondered if he was building his house on sand. But hadn't everything led up to this? Cleon smiled, and shook hands with a row of seated Party officials. You did this yourself? Cleon nodded. Is Uncle attending? Cleon would nod, and nod and shake many hands. A strange, angry pain startled his guts, and he swallowed the shame. These Party officials, while young and on his side of things, were still biased towards his uncle. His uncle was their god since childhood. Cleon Smith finished greeting, and sat beside his wife Irene, next to her one of Red's bodyguards. To the bodyguard's right sat his Rockefeller, a man wiping his face with a fat hand to conceal a yawn. His wife met his smile, and the couple locked hands, the warmth of hers comforting his stress. The first shows had ended and the crowd was hungry for the main event. Cleon sensed a change in the music of cheers. The crowd gradually silenced as if by spell. The sunlight shone brightly on the field. A group of uniformed soldiers with red scarves appeared, each holding a fist to their foreheads. Behind these men came an officer dressed plainly in a white, long-sleeved shirt buttoned to the collar. In his left hand he raised a fist to the sky, and behind him emerged a line of five condemned men with wooden poles carried on emaciated shoulders. One of them was bogged down by the weight, and the man behind him kicked him forward. Cleon chuckled warmly. The man was in a hurry to die. This man was Lyle Jackson, and in front of him was Derek Woods, a true man who deserved fate this day. Upon the sight Patrick Hughes went wet in the crotch and trembled so that his elbows bumped into Cleon's ribs. He looked to Hughes and saw a pale face. His Irene was enthralled, absorbed by the show. Meanwhile the five condemned men had arrived on the field diamond and were bombarded by an onslaught of rude barks from the crowd. The soldiers with red scarves stood behind each man, each hanging there like vultures over prey. The well dressed officer shouted that these men were to be given for the bringer of dawn. The crowd went wild. Cleon Smith indulged in the beady, pointed eyes of the young politicians seated around him. He held his wife's hand strongly until the executionary officer hissed with a whistle and proclaimed the names of the condemned. Cleon peered over and smiled to his uncle, and Red Smith pressed his ears solid on every name. The bodyguard Jack Wallace asked, "You can't see them?" "Not at the distance. Not with my eyesight," said Red Smith. "Tell me, what is he saying?" "The first one is a policeman of the old order." The executionary officer roared two more names. "Next." "A soldier of the old order. And his sergeant," said Jack Wallace. "Malcolm Grant." Red Smith looked to his peering nephew and said, "Thank you. I didn't like that slave of yours." "My pleasure." "Next ones are two low criminals—" Jack Wallace spoke as the executionary officer pointed to the final man, a dark skinned skeleton with an empty belly. "Brackenbury and Woods, these are the men were picked up from Indianapolis. I remember Brackenbury so well. But it's been years. Could it be a coincidence?" "A stain, a criminal!" The executionary officer shouted with the passion rising in his throat. "A criminal, a thief, a rapist, and attempted assassin of our bringer of dawn, our leader Rockefeller. These are his friends. But him! He is Lyle, agent of the United States." "Hot damn," Blaine said. The color had returned to Patrick's face. This moment had been carefully and brilliantly choreographed in their minds. Now that the past had been drawn out, the people would scream thanks to only Cleon Smith, for he had brought them a criminal worthy of execution. Cleon would be a hero. Uncle would, against his will, surrender the crown and the power. The nephew would taste the throne by tomorrow. He smiled to Patrick, thanked him for everything, and kissed his wife on the cheek. Cleon felt the strange anger give way to giddy glee. "The day is ours," he said to Irene. Irene looked through him, to the field, then back at him. There was a concerned worry about her. "Aren't you happy? You must be." "Honey, the crowd." "What?" The crowd was dead silent. An audience of thousands failed to produce a whisper. A cloud of anxiety filled brains. Cleon was unable to read their minds, but he saw puzzled looks on his entourage of invited Party officials. "Is this the great rumored enemy?" asked one young man. "I believe so," said another. "I thought it was another rebel captain." "These are some skeleton slaves." "We at least were fed a hot meal." "Is this what passes for entertainment nowadays?" A lady official sitting behind Cleon whispered to his wife. Irene was silent, and her mouth was caught in a frozen terror. She held Cleon's hand warmly, but his had grown dead with cold. "Who is Lyle Jackson?" said the lady. "A nobody," Jack Wallace remarked. "This is an insult to Rockefeller." "Then why he is rumored to be so great?" "He is a nobody," Jack emphasized. Red Smith was impassive as if not registering the silence of the crowd, the embarrassment from the ill response, and the shattering of his nephew's stairway to power. "Cleon, you will see me in my office," he said standing up from his seat as if to leave. He stood there a radiant horse, a man to be feared as God. The Party officials surrounding him were struck. Cleon rose to meet his height, and blocking Jack Wallace from standing, took his uncle by the arm. "What will we do?" He sobbed into his ear. "I thought the crowd would eat this up." "You told me the truth with your face," replied Red Smith. "Had you brought this up with me before, I could have saved your face then. Your problem would be fixed, and it wouldn't be a problem of mine. Consider this a justice for being nephew," he said and raised two full fists into the air. "Forgive me." "Forgiveness, mercy," Red Smith began to raise his voice, and it became clear he was now speaking to the thousands who prayed to him nightly. "Mercy is in the air, smell her. These enemies are enemies of old. I love them as I love all. I am a caring man," he paused, and felt the tightening of the crowd's ears. Cleon said, "Forgive me. Forgive me for my foolishness," and Irene pulled him by the arm, and he budged. He needed to stand for himself. Red Smith ignored him and pressed the audience. He watched the executionary officer, this man his friend from long ago. The officer pointed to him, clasped a flat hand over his heart, and pulled a slip of paper from his breastpocket. Reading from it he said, "Praise be to Rockefeller and to his Holiest nephew Cleon, for Smith's Ferry celebrates today, this afternoon. These men are pardoned!" The crowd gasped as if it had a collective throat, one seized and squeezed by a great hand. This was God's hand. Red Smith had shown them mercy. In an instant thousands of cheers broke, and tears came to the face of Cleon. "What's happening?" said Jack Wallace. "Those are criminals like any other." "What's happening?" mocked Red Smith, lowering his voice to proximity. "I am giving the people a new gift. Hundreds of shows with same manners of execution. Boring. A show of love is long overdue," he said and flicked a finger for his bodyguards to rise. Then to Cleon he whispered, "My office. Bring your best men and regret nothing." "I will," he gulped. Down below the crowd was wild and cheering the pardon. Only a great man like Rockefeller could control the tides of life and death. He was surely a god amongst men. Women cried and the men roared. The children would dream of this night. The executionary officer ordered his men to lead the pardoned slaves off the baseball field. With everything going as planned the officer whistled and announced the commencement of the next show after a short break. ---- At the reunion in his office, Red Smith sat at the head of the long table and was surrounded by Jack Wallace to his right, Ignacio to his left. These men were younger and better to fix around his finger. The Beekman family had long been his primary associates in the first years of the liberation, and blood on both sides were warm when Red Smith had appointed Gary Beekman to govern the west Bloc. The brothers had been glad. Those lands bordering Illinois were peaceful. A thundering, quick conquest of what the military held there allowed for a soft implementation of the populace into the empire. Most of the farms resided in the western territory. These farms had been seized by the military, and Gary Beekman took his army of men and preached liberation to his countrymen. The mothers and fathers threw an uprising, and the Beekman army had entered the western towns one by one, claiming the land for the Smith family. The liberated countrymen were given their towns, and they were to work the farms and donate peacefully a majority of crops and foods to the Smith family. Such had been the case in the eastern and southern towns surrounding Smith's Ferry. And such was why food was plentiful in the capital city. For a decade this system had accelerated the return of prosperity to the former state of the union. The unknown, the world beyond, was of little concern to Red Smith, and the duties of his cronies reflected his beliefs. Walls and garrisons heavily guarded the borders. The undead hordes had receded gradually, and the military of the old guard had disappeared near his empire. A year of scout missions around the nearby lands of Illinois and Ohio had produced little fear that the United States military was preparing a reconquista. Even then Red Smith and his followers had no access to any possible outside world through telephone or radio. Years ago the governor of the southern province, a former soldier Ray Cameron, had proposed expanding the empire into northern Kentucky. Red Smith had vetoed this, but had allowed lenience in the months leading up to this day. This day Red Smith thought calmly of the state of his heavenly world. The joyous screams of tens of thousands biting his ears. He smiled weakly. The silent screams of enemies as they worked his farms. The empire functioned beautifully. For the first time in his tenure gripping the reins passed down to him by his father, Red Smith feared tomorrow. Tomorrow would mean a day that his throne was empty. He would hold the games to test the muscles of his governors, may the strongest win. But a concerned look on his face worried Jack Wallace, but the Italian did not dare speak, knowing his place of low rank. The patient, silent waiting on his nephew had suffocated the room. There opened the door and entered the other two bodyguards followed by Patrick Hughes, Governor McConnell, brothers Lucas and Timothy Moon, and Irene, her dress full of color and her face lively despite the shock in the room. Red Smith had ordered for his nephew's best men, and he was about to object to her presence but paused when his Cleon walked through the door with a noticeable bulge under the breast of his damp, sweaty uniform. He reached into the breastpocket and revealed a short shiny knife and landed it on the table. "For ethics," he said, and took a seat at the end of the table with his entourage. Unfazed by the act Red Smith began by saying, "You're late, nephew. Let us talk." "What the hell was that bull about?" Blaine McConnell barked. "You ruined us, you ruined Cleon!" "He saved us," Patrick said, his face impassive. "The crowds were displeased." "Displeased! Displeased!" Blaine looked to Red Smith. "My sir, the crowd did not realize how much time and sponsoring was put into this." "Sponsored by whom?" Red Smith asked. "The enemies of mine? Those who seek to undo my legacy, I see." Blaine calmed himself and lowered his eyes in respect. "My sir, this event was to please the audience with blood. Not with mercy." "The bringer of dawn is displeased," Jack Wallace said and made a slow glance to his counterpart Ignacio who began walking towards Cleon. "Displeased with this event of terrorism," Ignacio said arriving behind Cleon's seat and patting his shoulder as if dusting it off. "You are to be sanctioned, Cleon Smith." The atmosphere of the room was awful. What was to be the boost that Cleon needed to tame the mob and ride their hands to the Town Hall had evaporated before his eyes. Everyone of his entourage made furtive glances to see the reaction on Cleon's face but it was peaceful. As if told he had a month to live Cleon said, "Uncle, I want you to know that I am ashamed of myself." "Thank you," Ignacio answered and began squeezing his shoulder. "My leader," said Irene. "Perhaps this can be lessened." "No, not lessened. He is innocent and a victim of oppression," said Lucas Moon the young bother who Cleon had expected to come to his defense given their friendship was as strong as a blood relation. "People in this capital know that the throne is wavering. They speak of a successor." Timothy Moon nodded. "And when they do, who do they speak of?" Lucas continued, "They don't speak of Blaine McConnell. He is the old man in the Town Hall mansion. The folks in this city don't pray to him. Certainly they ain't pray to the governors of the other provinces. If they haven't got respect for their own governor, don't expect them to accept a governor who only visits for first class events and parades. The folks here, our citizens, only see one true successor. Only Cleon is that man." "Only Cleon is that man," repeated his brother. "My leader," pleaded Blaine. "Consider that Cleon is blood. Cancel the gladiator games. End the foolishness. I can have the events officially cancelled by tonight." Red Smith nodded and Ignacio reached forward and slid the short shiny knife across the table. Red Smith wrapped his fingers around the handle and said, "You discussed letting my Cleon lead your team of fighters. If the team wins, he becomes the heir? Or you?" "Only Cleon is that man," Blaine emphasized. Cleon for the first time broke his stupor and looked to his uncle, aware that Blaine had not caught on. His uncle had been listening to his private conversations. This was clear, and a strange feeling of dread made Cleon gulp knowing that his uncle had not tried to keep secret this activity. It hit him that his uncle did not bother because he knew his nephew would feel tiny at the idea of feeling his uncle's powerful presence in every aspect of his life. If he was subject to his uncle's spies, little remained then to differentiate him from the average rebel enemy of Red Smith. "My Cleon will be sanctioned," Red Smith continued. "He pay a fine for going against me. To be paid in a down payment and in full by the end of the day." "How much?" Cleon said. He looked to his friends as if pleading for money with his eyes. Ignacio said, "One thousand dollars." By now Blaine was fumbling with his wallet. Irene was holding firmly to Cleon's cold hand. Red Smith, beautifully aged, breathed in heavily and pointed the knife to his nephew. "I want you to end your foolishness," he began. "I know of your ambitions. Your flattery to Party officials who like you because you are new and fresh, and disfavor their savior because he is old even though he has provided for them liberation since childhood. Your flattery to my people, driving them to mob mentality so you can blow their flames and use them as a battering ram for the Town Hall. My Cleon, you think much of me. I'm not dumb, senile. I observe, I watch." "Observe and watch," said Ignacio. Jack Wallace stood there a menacing figure beside his leader, echoing his sentiments. Cleon said happily, "I will pay the down payment." "You and Irene won't be returning home," Red Smith began. "I will accept payment now. I want a quick end to this dangerous animosity. I will let fate decide you, my Cleon. I already have a team of fighters for you and the Governor," he said, and Blaine let his jaw open in surprise. "It will be your Lyle Jackson and his friends." "Six skeletons," said Ignacio. "It is time they meet their end," said Red Smith. "You were right on that, nephew. Right on that. Dangerous to have these reminders of painful days breathing. I hadn't known they yet lived, not until yesterday," he said, and once again Cleon flinched at his uncle's horrifying admission of spying on him. He didn't bother bringing this up. "Thank you, uncle," Cleon forcefully said upon feeling Ignacio dig his nails in his shoulder. "Thank you for the chance to show my worth. To you, I owe you as much. Red Smith looked to his nephew's entourage, and gave a slow eye to Irene, her face colorful with blood. He caught Ignacio's eyes, and suddenly the bodyguard thrusted Cleon out of his seat so that he stood at his full height. "You'll pay up now," he said, and flapped a hand at Blaine when the man waved a collection of bills. "Take the money," Cleon said. "We will leave, leave this place. Nobody in the audience will notice my absence. I'll go with Blaine." "You'll go with Blaine," Red Smith growled. "And you and your friends here will discontinue your efforts to undermine me. Consider this meeting a blessing of blood, my nephew." Cleon Smith swallowed this third bout of humiliation. It was even more hurting in front of his wife. He already had problems getting it up for her every now and then, and tonight would be no different. Cleon nodded for his friends to stand up to leave, but Ignacio shushed them and squeezed harder on his shoulder. "What gives?" "You can't leave without paying up." "The money Blaine will leave it on the table. The rest will be delivered by tonight," Cleon said and the breath was shot out his lungs as Ignacio pushed him forward. The bodyguard pushed him again and Cleon struggled against him. "What are you doing to me, you bitch?" The bodyguard ignored him. He said to Cleon's entourage watching, "Observe and watch." The two other bodyguards followed Ignacio as he continued shoving Cleon through the room. Red Smith smiled deeply. All heads watched this emasculation as Cleon helplessly held his hands out to keep the three bodyguards at bay barely blocking their shoves and few punches. "Hold him," Red Smith said. Cleon saw himself rail against the edge of the table and the two bodyguards pin his arms tight to each side of the surface. He last saw Ignacio swelling his hand into a red fist. He squirmed and pleaded until the first blow caught him in the cheek. His eye must have exploded. The pain was glorious in his brain. Another punch struck his jaw, then another one perfectly coordinated to his gut. By then the blood was rushing to his head and he was unconscious by the time the guards released him, laying him out on the table like a pig. "You really got him good," said the one guard Benjamin to Ignacio. Ignacio said, "That's a thousand dollars worth of medical bills. Ain't that right, governor?" "Let the governor speak," Red Smith commanded. The guards silenced like loyal dogs. Blaine McConnell stood up and pocketed the money. He spoke as a representative to Cleon's entourage. "Let this be a day of peace. Of peace. Grievances have been aired, and rightly so. We got the bad blood out of the way. Now we have an understanding, I'll work with Cleon. We'll provide a good show for the games, a good team." Jack Wallace eyeballed this man marked by past prestige. "Do you really understand? Or do we have to straighten you out too?" Ignacio gave a little smile. "Glory be to the bringer of dawn!" Benjamin shouted bravely. Through a bloody daze Cleon listened to this and swore he would remember who first came to his rescue. Hours later he floated in and out of slumber. A wet, cold slab of meat was now on his face and his back rested on a cushioned couch. For a good time he was not afraid. He laid thinking about fate, and then a hand removed the cold meat from his face. His left eye failed to open. The right eye exposed him to Blaine McConnell who stood above him. Behind him there was the desk of his Town Hall with the glow of burning oil in a lantern. "Was it bad?" he asked. "It could have been worse," Blaine said chewing the cold meat, his belly bare of shirt as he was dressed liberally down to his sagging pants. "He was set on killing you. Dump the body. Make it look like a hit from political enemies. But too many witnesses. That's a message," he said pointing to the red, inflamed bruise where Cleon's eye was supposed to be. "He ordered us to leave and we left you behind. Your uncle stayed in there for another hour talking to his boys. Then I asked Irene to go pick you up. She said to wait, so I waited until she sent the Moon brothers. We dropped you here, and Irene said she would come back in the morning." "The time. What is it?" "A hair above my asshole before dusk." Blaine grabbed him by the face and inspected the wound. "I put the Moon brothers to your mansion. Some of my men are guarding the slaves. They're a bit upset over one slave you took to execute. But besides that, nothing. Seas are calm. Streets are silent now." "What about Patrick?" Cleon said grumbling, and this sudden anger surprised Blaine so he let go of his face. "He vanished." "Yeah, he better. He's a good friend, a good talker. Let him be a while." Blaine couldn't tell exactly what his friend was getting at, but in these words was a threat hidden like a knife in a sheath. "The slaves? Jackson and his friends?" "Forget that. We aren't going to give in," Blaine said. "Your uncle will have his last day a couple days from now. I'll have a man I know provide the poison." Cleon barked, "Don't be a coward. Where are they?" "In the coliseum's basement storage area." "We'll go there tomorrow. Maybe the day after," he said gently. "We'll start training them by then." Blaine knew not to speak his mind beyond this point. In his heart he knew that Red had rigged them up for great failure. He knew that they would lose at the games, that this was a final act of humiliating punishment before death by Red's secret police. But Blaine would keep silent now. It was clear that Cleon had reached the point of no return with that third strike of embarrassment in a day. The rage in his one good eye was extreme. Blaine said, "I have men posted around the building. In case your uncle wants you dead by daybreak" "We should have been more careful," Cleon breathed in. "I should have waited. The old man's heart would have given in a couple months from now. Or maybe it will tomorrow. Hey Blaine, you'll make a good lieutenant. You will. We'll do a good job. I want to sleep." "Yeah." "And he's got a spy. Maybe it was the canvasser kid that disappeared." "You want me to find Patrick?" "Don't leave me alone," Cleon said closing his eye to sleep and there was a subtle dread in his tone. "We'll find him tomorrow, OK? He can't get far from us. We have to tell him how he's going to help with training the slaves." "OK," said Blaine. An hour later Irene arrived with the Moon brothers who wanted to pay their respects. They notified Cleon that word had leaked of his beating to the Party officials. Lucas and Timothy seemed urging to tell him something. Cleon raised a hand and spoke from the couch. A voice so hopeful that it brought Blaine to tears. He announced that his uncle's tenure as leader of the liberated people was to end. He damned his uncle's name and told Blaine to not suspend his propaganda efforts to persuade the capital's citizens to join his underground coalition, an industry that had proved effective until now. Cleon told these four friends he only trusted them, for all others were spies and thieves like the one canvasser kid who had defected. Lucas raised a hand to speak. The canvasser kid had been found dead overnight. Crucified to the back wall of Cleon's mansion out in the forest. Lacking any reason not to, Cleon Smith told his friends to prepare for war against his Uncle and his disgraced, aged way of governing. Nobody denied this and none of the five friends doubted that the rage was boiling in the nephew's heart was justified. ---- Morning light came to Smith's Ferry. In the Town Hall building sat Cleon Smith behind the desk of Governor Blaine McConnell. Before him were a number of papers on the desk with the names and political affiliations of numerous powerful men and women in the empire. Upon the onset of the empire many men believed his uncle to be a godly figure above them. That this land of theirs would be liberated from the military, and so great was the cult of his uncle that they did not make a fuss that he treated them likewise. The United States military had taken their lands and homes, and his Uncle had enslaved them to their homes and lands. A strange feeling of envy rattled him, and Cleon began to review the information on the papers. A decade of prosperity. A decade of little to no crime. The hallmarks of his uncle's success lied in political and societal conformity. When his uncle gave speeches in the first years of empire he emphasized these points. The crowd would roar and he would smile internally. Red Smith declared once to his nephew that he had no enemies, and this was a fact because the open critics had vanished and the closeted ones worked underground. Under the feet of Red Smith, hundreds worked to see him fall. These men, Cleon thought as he trailed his fingers over their names, were anarchists, people with vendetta in their hearts. Cousins of those thousands made vanished. His uncle would always put the remaining family members of the departed to work under surveillance on the outer farms. But he could not catch the one family member in a hundred. Before him were dozens of these traitors, heretics to his uncle, and patriots to Cleon Smith. Cleon was a patriot by the time the wars in southern Indiana had ended. The four provinces of empire had been established in the first years. The armies were settled and divided. Generals and lieutenants returned home to Red Smith with kisses and handshakes, boxes of alcohol and narcotics. Cleon waited anxiously to be handed a high political rank, perhaps as a Commanding Officer of the Party. This position had been reserved for Bram Beekman. The recently appointed Governor Gary Beekman, a returning general, had flattered Red Smith into the idea. Cleon had reacted calmly to the news and settled for a position in the Party as General Secretary. His uncle's spokesman ordered him to wait. After one fortnight Cleon Smith received the news from Bram Beekman that the General Secretary had been chosen as a close political ally of Red's, the holy Irish priest of the capital's Catholic Church of Our Lady. Irene had been with him that afternoon. The wrath of Cleon Smith had spilled all over. He had cursed and screamed to Bram Beekman, and threatened to send him in a coffin to his uncle. Cleon had punched him, tripping them both to the floor of his apartment, and through unbearable sadness had pummeled Bram with numb fists until he fell over and sobbed into the ground. Bram Beekman slowly had stood up, lifted his family friend, and slapped him across the face in front of his lady. He would be fine, Bram had told him. His uncle had secured him a mansion with his own security guards to oversee a campground of enemy combatants. They worked on a plantation, he said, and it would bring free food to the capital. Cleon would be in his uncle's good graces. Within a month of assuming control of the plantation Cleon Smith had grown to realize the taste of politics and business on his tongue. But it would take him years to come to understanding. While his uncle had spent his adult life arguing against corruption and the ills of man, Cleon could see why such things were unavoidable if man were to survive. Red Smith had viewed the generals of the armies as bigger threats, so he had respectfully answered desires by rewarding them with satisfying positions and promotions. Knowing Cleon was a mere threat, but one that could easily blossom out of not being acknowledged, Red Smith had evened out the threat posed by his nephew by sending him far away from the capital but within range of guards to keep him watch. The only difference know, Cleon grinned alone, was a smaller margin of error. Red Smith was sick and dying and Cleon was as ambitious as ever, the blood rising now to fill his crotch. ---- ---- =Issues= Category:Step by Step Category:Category:Step by Step Issues Category:Issues